Drip Drip Drip
by smalld1171
Summary: Redone version of my previous story 'Drip'... just having some creepy Halloween fun at the brother's expense. CHARACTER DEATH. Rated for safety.


_Hi everyone. This is a redone version of my previous 'Drip' story, thought I'd change a few things and repost for the Halloween season. Take care and thanks for stopping by, I hope you will enjoy._

_P.S. I still do not own anything related to SPN._

* * *

People are crazy. It's not a theory; it's a damn freakin' fact. Take this douchebag for example; smiling like he just won first prize at the serial killer convention, his latest victim splayed out like a macabre slab of meat; the bathroom floor, the tub, and even the wackjob himself covered in a disgusting crimson coating.

He can still hear the television in the other room, the bloodcurdling screams of the token female of the horror flick filtering into his ears and making him nauseous. How many people heard the real screams mixed in with Hollywood's version? His stomach rolls at the thought of what this woman went through at the hands of this lunatic.

What is it about Halloween that sets these freaks off? Jesus, how many years has this Jason wanna-be been doing this for kicks?

"C'mon Dean, we gotta go man, cops are on the way. Can you stand up?"

Yeah, but maybe he doesn't quite want to yet; maybe he ain't so sure he wants to leave this one breathing. Not like the world would miss this grade A jack-off.

"Listen, I know what you're thinking and yeah, I also know he deserves it but we don't kill people, no matter how messed up they are or what they have done. Right? Dean?"

That rule is stupid. It needs to change, and no time like the present. He's gonna wipe that damn smirk off that loser's blood drenched face; it won't change what happened and it may not even make him feel better but he can't let this stand without doing something.

Crap, his body definitely has other ideas.

"Whoa, just take it easy man, you've lost a lot of blood remember?"

Blood. Right, that seems to be the theme for the evening. And that's what happens when you find yourself face to face with not a demon or a spirit but none other than a human psychopath and his favourite scalpel; when you're shocked just long enough by the bombardment of crazy for the bastard to try and turn you into a man-kabob.

"The cops will deal with him; he'll be put away for life and won't be able to hurt anyone again. Sorry man but there's nothing else we can do and we can't be here when they show. Let me help you up."

That bastard. He's laughing. Tied up, covered in the blood, the cops only minutes away and this piece of crap is laughing.

Urged along by his brother's guiding hand on his arm he instinctively shuts off the television to silence the screams emanating from it as they make their way to the door. He stops then, when what should be an eerie silence is filled with a sound much worse than none at all.

Drip... drip... drip...

Constant and droning, his eyes are drawn to it even though he already knows what they will see. Blood. Dripping like water from a leaking faucet; the source of the sound is the woman, still hanging from the shower rod, a river of red fluid continuing its flow downward from her bludgeoned, lifeless body. He gags slightly when he takes in the scene; as he replays in his mind finding her there and catching the killer in the act of writing a message on the wall in her blood.

Another chorus of chuckles from the nutjob makes him flinch and turn his head to face her killer.

"I know right? It's fascinating. I mean, those so-called movies? Hell, they don't do it justice. She's... it's... just soooo... beautiful. I knew it would be great but this... this is a masterpiece... and I can't wait to do it again."

He gulps when the idiot stops laughing and his darkened eyes seem to bore right into his soul.

"And believe me, Dean... I'm going to. I'll make my own film, true to life, in glorious Technicolor and it'll be the greatest horror of all time... because it will all be real."

And that's all it takes for his usually stoic facade to crack and for his lunch to make an unwelcome return. The last thing he remembers as he is manoeuvred out of the house of horrors and darkness starts to cloud his vision is that damn freakshow wishing him a Happy Halloween, followed by the fading echo of his maniacal laughter.

* * *

The drip of the water as it escapes the tap is driving him mad. If he didn't feel like something a freakin' hell hound dragged in he'd get up, find an all-night hardware store, buy a hammer and take great pleasure in making the stupid thing shut the hell up already.

…drip… drip… drip…

He feels a shiver climb up his spine at the sound but he's not sure why; his head feels like it's detached and floating in a sea of fog.

C'mon already, he's the one with a gash in his side and a fever to boot so why the hell is he also the one who is left to take of some damn, leaky faucet in the middle of the night?

Where the hell is his brother? He's pretty sure he didn't imagine Mr. Long-haired giant doing his best Florence Nightingale mother hen routine all night; telling him repeatedly to get some rest after whatever the hell happened; the details of which seem to be curled up in a corner of his brain somewhere refusing to come out to play. So, when he finally caves to the constant nagging and settles in for a snooze just to shut his brother up; to stop him and the headache inducing grate of yet another lecture, the ass can't even be bothered to take two damn seconds to turn a friggin' tap and make it stop?

Drip... drip... drip...

For the love of….fine… all he knows is come hell or high water he needs the sound to go away; there's something about it that is making his hair stand up on end. If Sammy ain't gonna step up to the plate then he'll just do it himself.

He stumbles carefully away from the bed and shuffles his bare feet to the sink. He sighs and rubs his aching eyeballs in frustration when he comes to discover that not one single, solitary drop of liquid is escaping from the faucet.

And still, he can hear it.

Drip… drip… drip…

Okay, no problem. One down, one to go. He eyes the bathroom door and as he passes by his brother's bed, takes notice that it's empty. Peachy. So, Samantha decided to go for a little stroll in the middle of the night, isn't that swell. Nice. Way to look out for your beat up big brother Sam; the one who is slowly going insane from the agonizingly slow yet constant pitter-patter of water as it hits the surface of the sink.

Jesus, he is gonna rip his ears off of his damn head if he doesn't find relief from the racket of water piercing through them soon. He opens the door and the noise tears through his mind like a freight train. Yahtzee. This is definitely the place; this is where he will make everything better.

He reaches over and turns both taps so tight it'll take a damn wrench to get them going again. Take that Sam, good luck brushing your teeth whenever you decide to stroll in and grace your big brother with your presence; those taps aren't budging anytime soon.

He smiles briefly in the darkness, a picture of Sam struggling to get the water going almost making this weird journey worth it. He turns to leave but his breath hitches as another...

drip… drip… drip…

…invades his senses. That's it; he must have just been driven around the bend on his way to crazy-ville. Too many drugs, too much booze or too much blood loss; he ain't sure which but something doesn't add up.

Time to shed a little light on the subject.

He flicks the switch on the wall and as his eyes focus on his surroundings he barely registers his legs give way or the jolt that rips through them when they land heavily against the floor. He scurries backwards along the surface until his escape route is halted; his body pushing the door closed with his frantic movements. His mouth gapes open and shallow breaths give way to shock and utter disbelief; a scream like none other he has ever made surging upwards from the depths of his core to fill the stifling confines of the room.

Drip… drip… drip…

The source of that sound finally registers; the realization burning his eyes and searing his heart with unfathomable anguish. His body flinches with each drop; as tremors course through his frame.

Drip… drip… drip…

… goes not water, but blood.

Blood.

_Sam's_ blood…

…as it falls from his tattered body and meets the surface of the tub below.

And there, sprawled on the wall, written in his brother's own blood are two words.

Happy Halloween.

* * *

_End._


End file.
